


Rosie’s revelation

by lonely_night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, SALLY HAS A BRICK IN HER BAG, Sally’s not a bitch, Smut, a tiny bit of angst, anthea ships it, showering together, surprising I know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_night/pseuds/lonely_night
Summary: Rosie’s got shit to say//how a simple sentence leads to a whole lot of alcohol, confusion, regret, Mycroft in a PUB (I KNOW), love, fluff and a nice bit o’ smut!





	1. The revelation

They met again at 5 O’clock in the afternoon outside 221B.

 

“Hello Mycroft,” said Greg, “been summoned too then?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Mycroft replied, a little stiffly.

Greg held the door open for the younger man, not missing the slight flush of pink on his cheeks.

Mycroft Holmes, _blushing_.

Greg pushed the thought away, assuming it was just from the biting wind howling down the street.

They both went up the stairs.

 

It had been a long time since Greg had properly seen Mycroft. Now that Sherlock was doing mostly fine (John has certainly played a big part in that), they hadn’t needed to have surveillance meetings that lasted long into the night which left Greg exhausted upon leaving the golden warmth of Mycroft’s office. The meetings had always left him with the long, lonely walk back to his flat to lie in a cold bed that didn’t feel like his own.

Since the divorce, hell, even before it, he hadn’t really felt like he’d belonged, well … anywhere.

_Sad_ _bastard._

Greg pulled himself out of his thoughts as he walked into Sherlock and John’s flat.

 

 

“My!” Rosie screamed, catapulting into Mycroft’s arms.

“Bonjour, Rosamund,” Mycroft replied, gathering her up into his arms.

“French again?” Sherlock said, snorting derisively.

“It is a useful language to speak,” said Mycroft quietly,

“Yeah, I’m half French so I should know!” Greg said, laughing.

“You? Half French?” said John, unable to hide his surprise,

“Well yeah, Lestrade’s a French name, wouldn’t have to be a Holmes to deduce that,” said Greg, “what, think I’m not sophisticated enough to be French?” he teased,

“Well ... Yeah,” said John, “I’ve never even heard you speak the language.”

“Nah, only ever speak it with the French side of the family,” Greg explained, grinning, before gesturing at his tattered coat, “not exactly the image of a Parisian.”

“Blah, blah, blah, it’s all very nice to have a friendly catch-up, Gunther, or should I call you Gregoire?” Sherlock sneered.

“ _Yes_ ”, Greg spat,

“I’m sorry?”

“Gregoire is more similar to my name than Gunther,” said Greg, already annoyed and vaguely wondering why he had been called here by Sherlock in the first place.

“Is it?”

“I’ll go and put the kettle on,” said John quickly,

“Nah, I’ll get it, ‘m closer to the kitchen,” said Greg, walking into the incredibly messy kitchen, “don’t you two ever do the cleanin’?”

“Graham, be quiet, I’m explaining to my brother about this case!”

“Well shouldn’t I come an’ listen then?”

“No!”

Greg raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue and began tiding up the pots and pans as the kettle boiled.

“You’re getting the less complicated version in a minute,” Sherlock said, answering Greg’s raised eyebrow.

“Charming,” he muttered.

 

 

About half a minute later into an explanation Sherlock and John appeared to already be bickering.

Mycroft yawned, shifting Rosie on his hip.

“Uncle My?”

“Mmmm?”

“I’ve deduced something!” said Rosie proudly.

Oh dear.

“Really? What is it?” Mycroft asked, with a touch of caution in his voice.

Rosie took a deep breath: “Uncle Greg likes you.”

“Hmmm, I like him too,” said Mycroft, his heart having somewhat calmed down, fully having expected the youngest Holmes to deduce something terrifying about any one of them, “he’s a good man.”

Mycroft vividly remembered the night that they lost track of Sherlock on the surveillance cameras - the DI had kept him company with whisky, cigarettes and engaging conversation (“cats or dogs?” and, particularly memorable, “how long would you survive in a zombie apocalypse?”), until they had found his brother again.

“No,” said Rosie giggling, “he doesn’t just like you. He like likes you!”

Mycroft froze.

“How - How do you know?” his voice sounded strained and not like his own at all.

“It’s in his eyes,” said Rosie, “I’m going to tell him that I told you now!” She laughed happily.

“No, I-“ but before Mycroft could get further, his phone rang. It was Anthea. He sighed. “Sherlock, just send me the details of the case, John, L- Lestrade,” he said, nodding his head at John, and rushing out of the door before his Niece could go into the Kitchen.

 

“Bye Mycroft,” Greg said loudly, attempting to be heard over John and Sherlock, who were still arguing. He heard the door slam shut and sighed. Greg still longed for the dark nights they had shared together, just for a bit of the other man’s company. He wasn’t asking for much.

It didn’t help that Mycroft was stunningly beautiful, he thought, with his long fingers and longer legs and that perfectly precise hair that Greg just wanted to run his hands through and ruin... he sucked in a breath.

The kettle boiled.

Greg returned to the present and realised that Rosie was tugging at his sleeve, “Uncle Greg!”

“Hi Rosie,” he smiled, his eyes creasing around the sides. Ah well, he thought, one more wrinkle won’t hurt. He was getting far too old for this. Sherlock and John were still squabbling, but with less heat in their voices now.

Greg took his washing up gloves off and crouched down next to Rosie, “what’s up?”

“I told Mycroft you like him,” the little girl crowed,

“I do like him,” Greg said easily, although he realised his hands were beginning to shake slightly.

“No silly, I told him that you like like him!”

“WHAT?!”

Rosie clapped her hands together happily.

Greg vaguely wondered if, as Detective Inspector, he could get away with hitting a child. He thought he probably couldn’t.

“How d’you know anyway?”

“It’s in your eyes,” said Rosie beaming.

Greg glared.

“He didn’t seem angry,” said Rosie, attempting to hide her delight at the look on Greg’s face.

“Right,” said Greg, “stuff this, I need a drink. Look after yourself Rosie, you little minx.”

Rosie grinned and hugged him. Greg smiled, any anger that he still harboured disappearing instantly.

“Send me the details of the case, Sherlock, I’m going to be busy for the rest of the evening,” Greg shouted over his shoulder as he left the flat and practically jogged to his usual pub.

 

 

‘ _Hey_ _Sal its your day off right? x’_

_‘Yeah... what do you want x’_

_‘Horse and carriage pub in 10? x’_

_‘I’ll be there. Bad day with the Freak? x’_

_‘Shut up and get down here x’_

_‘Alright bossy x’_

 

_‘That’s my job x’_

 

Greg grinned. As much as Sally sometimes drove him round the bend he knew that she had him wrapped him around her little finger.

 

Greg took a seat at the bar the minute the rain started falling outside. It felt cosy.

Greg ordered a beer and two plates of chips. After a minutes consideration he ordered Sally a Mojito. That would make her happy.

“So, what’s on your mind Gregory?” She greeted him, chucking her bag on the floor with a loud ‘thunk’ and sliding onto the bar stool next to him.

“You trying to get me drunk, Lestrade?” She joked, taking the Mojito from him,

Greg laughed, “nah just myself.”

“Ooh, haven’t got hammered in a while have you? You really must have had a shit day,” if Greg didn’t know any better he would said that Sally actually sounded worried.

“Let’s not talk about it, yeah? Just need some alcohol, so drink up.”

“Now that’s an order I can follow.”

 

—

 

Mycroft sat in his office, mind still reeling after Rosie’s revelation. There wasn’t any reason to suppose that she had been lying which was perhaps the worst of it all.

Mycroft felt very strange. He was lonely of course, that was just part of his job description, and with Sherlock too he’d never really had the time to find himself someone. Not that he had ever believed that there was someone out there for him.

But now more than ever the loneliness hit him hard, like a wave crashing over him and cascading down his spine, leaving cold droplets shining on his pale skin.

Mycroft had been working incessantly for the past twelve hours. Perhaps it was time to take a break. He thought about going out to one of his usual places but no, not tonight. Tonight he wanted something different.

 

—

 

Several drinks later, Greg was feeling comfortably light-headed. Not smashed off his face exactly, but drunk enough to be able to laugh at one of Sally’s crappier jokes - “...and then he said, ‘you must have been doing 90 to keep up with me, well done!!’”

Greg had yet again managed to drink Sally under the table, although she protested it was due to the strength of her Mojitos and therefore Greg gained an unfair advantage. Greg pleaded violently against this every time.

 

“‘S’getting late Greg, I should prob’ly go,” muttered Sally, “‘know you don’t have work tomorrow but I do.”

Greg grinned suddenly - he’d forgotten about his day off. He’d booked it weeks ago but the days had dragged by so slowly they’d made him forget. “Smug bastard,” Sally said, glaring at him and staggering under the weight of her handbag as she picked it up.

“Got a brick in there, Sal, or just very drunk?”

“Both,” Sally replied,

“Wait, you actually do ‘ave a brick?”

“Yeah, never know when you’ll need to knock someone out.”

Greg raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment - he’d bring it up with her on Thursday, when both of them were sober enough to care.

As Sally walked off, Greg ordered another drink. ‘Now you just look sad,’ his brain supplied helpfully. Greg sighed. He’d go home after this one.

—

 

_**THUD.** _

His face twisted slightly, a blemish in his perfectly straight back and iron expression, as a heavy-duty handbag slapped him in the stomach. Mycroft vaguely wondered if the woman was carrying a brick, or indeed several. Perhaps the bag was like Hermione’s enchanted bag in Harry Potter and the woman was in fact carrying an entire house. Mycroft whirled around, to hear a quick and muttered apology from the woman’s retreating back, recognising the curly black hair of Sergeant Donovan.

Mycroft realised far too late the trap that Anthea had set for him.

He turned round and began to walk out but, looking up properly, he saw that the car was no longer there.

Damn Anthea!

 

Rather begrudgingly, Mycroft took a small table next to the wall and hoped he could enjoy the atmosphere unobserved, and avoid bumping into someone he knew.

The atmosphere certainly was different to his normal clubs and restaurants. In fact, it was entirely alien and Mycroft felt rather out of his depth.

The pub consisted of the bar, several squashy and old leather sofas in the corner, a pool table around which several rather drunk people were gathered, and the occasional small table, one of which Mycroft was sat at. The menu also seemed foreign. It was serving typical pub food; fish and chips, Sunday roast, pies, bangers and mash and the very occasional salad.

The entire place was a far cry from Mycroft’s stiff armchairs, excellent whiskey and quiet chatter. Here, the noise was all-consuming, everyone was wearing tattered jeans and dirty t-shirts and people spoke with strong East-London accents, rather like DI Lestrade.

Mycroft froze.

Perhaps seeing Donovan here should have been a bigger clue.

He stared wildly around the pub, desperately hoping not to see the Detective Inspector’s figure, but his heart sank and his stomach churned as he laid his eyes on Lestrade’s grey hair and easy posture pondering what looked like a very large beer at the bar.

Still incredibly confused by the youngest member of the Holmes family’s statement, Mycroft attempted to take the easiest way out of the nerve-wracking situation. He grabbed his phone and dialed the number of his driver.

The phone rang out. No response.

Mycroft glared at the screen, knowing better than to call again.

He called a taxi.

Nothing.

Anthea must have performed some sort of miracle.

 

He gave in:

 

_‘Anthea, why am I not able to call neither my driver or a taxi?’_

 

_‘I thought it might be better for you to face your fears, Sir. Call me if there’s an emergency.’_

 

_‘Anthea, this **is** an emergency.’_

_‘You said you wanted to go somewhere different, Sir ;).’_

_‘Anthea, this was not what I meant.’_

_‘Anthea.’_

_‘Anthea!’_

 

Mycroft glowered. The sheer audacity! He ought to have her fired on the spot, he ought to...! But he knew he couldn’t - she knew too many state secrets. Besides, despite her clear insolence, Mycroft had known her for a long time. He might almost consider her a friend.

It felt strange to him to even think that, let alone say it, so he thought he better keep his mouth shut about that.

 

Mycroft gave his drinks order (a Mojito for want of much else that he liked to drink), to a relaxed-looking waiter and, having stalled on his food order, eventually ordered fish and chips because the waiter had told him it was the best in the UK. Mycroft highly doubted that but didn’t say it aloud, and he knew it wouldn’t go well with his Mojito at all.

At least he was getting into the spirit of things though, and with the waiter gone it gave him more time to observe the pub.

His gaze pulled back to Lestrade.

The man was so genuine and so beautiful, so at ease with everything around him. Mycroft could only assume that he came here often and couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t all that bad once you got used to it. He wondered what it would be like to come here with the other man. ‘Probably much more fun than just sitting by yourself’, supplied his brain.

The waiter brought him his Mojito, dragging him out of his thoughts.

 

—

 

Greg glanced over his shoulder to see a man who looked decidedly out of place in an impeccable black suit and purple tie. He couldn’t help noticing that he also looked like he could do with some company.

Figuring that what the hell, they shouldn’t both be alone, especially a man as gorgeous as this one, Greg had got down off the stool and was halfway across the pub before his brain started to catch up with him.The man made eye contact with him and Greg’s heart temporarily stopped. It was Mycroft.

_Fuck_. He suddenly felt very, very sober. It was too late to stop walking now.


	2. Fish and chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries not to make a fool of himself basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's shorter than the last one but hopefully it's still liked!! xox

Greg stopped in front of Mycroft’s table, his heart rattling in his chest like a can of beans.

“Thought that was you, Mycroft,” Greg lied, plastering an easy smile on his face and shoving his hands in his pockets so that the other man wouldn’t see them trembling, “mind if I sit down?”

Mycroft’s usually impassive face twisted slightly, perhaps with confusion, Greg couldn’t tell, “you can say no o’course,” he added quickly.

The other man cleared his throat, appearing to shake himself, “please, sit down Detective Inspector,” he murmured.

Greg, having expected to have been told to bugger off, sat down. His surprise was probably showing on his face, and even if it wasn’t, he realised Mycroft could probably see it anyway.

“No need for the title and that rubbish, Greg’ll do just fine.”

“As you wish, Det- _Greg_ ,” Mycroft said his name a little strangely, as though it was foreign to him. Greg supposed it was.

“You don’t seem like the sort of person to eat in pubs. No offence,” he added quickly, “only I’ve never seen you here before.”

“No,” Mycroft said, “I fancied something-“ he paused as if unsure what word to use, “different.”

“Yeah that makes sense. ‘Feel underdressed looking at you in that suit,” Greg said. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Mycroft in anything other than a suit and for a minute Greg allowed himself to picture him in a soft cashmere jumper. He stopped himself from sighing.

Mycroft looked down self-consciously and Greg mentally kicked himself. Poor man’s already out of his depth, make him more uncomfortable Greg, you idiot! Bad enough that he knows you fancy him!

“I like a man in a suit,” he said, before he could stop himself.

_For God’s sake Gregory Lestrade why are you fucking yourself over like this? You’re flirting with the British Government!_

“Sorry,” he muttered, but he noticed small spots of colour. Mycroft was blushing. _Christ_.

The second time in a day. Greg wasn’t entirely sure if this was a good sign or not.

 

A waiter placed Mycroft’s fish and chips in front of him and Greg mourned his plate of chips that he felt he had eaten years ago. He’d better not have another beer. He’d already embarrassed himself enough, and maybe some more food would help him sober up. He ordered sausage and chips.

“Don’t wait for mine to come, yours’ll go cold,” Greg said, realising that Mycroft hadn’t started eating yet, “the fish and chips are really good,promise,” he added, hoping to calm Mycroft’s apparent uneasiness.

Mycroft skewered a chip with his fork and Greg inwardly died, ‘eating chips with a fork, really?!’ screamed his brain, apparently about to shut down from the absurdity.

It was clear that Mycroft really didn’t go to pubs that often.

 

“Long day?” He asked, noticing the dark circles underneath the other man’s penetrating grey eyes. Greg suspected the marks of exhaustion were evident on his own face too.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side slightly, “shorter than most days,” he said quietly.

Greg’s heart squeezed painfully - he suspected that Mycroft worked far too hard to be healthy.

‘He’s got no one to look after him,’ said his brain.

‘Shut up’, thought Greg, ‘I’m sure he’s just fine. He’s an adult, and he’s got that assistant/PA/whatever she is.’

‘Well she’s clearly not doing a good job,’ his brain replied.

‘Wow Greg, you’re not even talking to yourself, you’re _thinking_ to yourself. This is bad,’ said another voice.

_For goodness sake._

Greg ignored his brain’s various voices.

“And yours?” Mycroft asked rather timidly. It sounded like it cost him a great deal to ask.

Greg wondered if he should just leave the poor man alone and let him get on with eating his meal in peace.

But he hadn’t looked peaceful, he had looked lonely.

“It was going alright until Rosie’s revelation, that little terror,” Greg replied, trying to keep his voice light, his calm façade wobbling slightly as he ran a hand through his greying hair. Greg had always been a little self-conscious of his prematurely grey hair. He put it down to the stress of his job. And the divorce. And now this - he felt as though his hair was becoming more grey as the seconds ticked by that Mycroft didn’t say anything.

Finally - “ah”, he said quietly.

Greg made a great effort to keep smiling, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

‘Leave now, Greg! Even your former-wife screaming that she hates you isn’t as clear a rejection as ‘ah’’, screamed his head, but Greg found himself incapable of movement.

Mycroft looked up, finally.

“I confess I am flattered, Greg, but I cannot understand it.”

Greg’s ears had begun ringing, “I’m sorry?”

“I’m flattered you think me worthy of your affection, but I cannot see why I would be.”

Greg stared at him, jaw slack, “but...but,” his brain worked feverishly, attempting to conjure up a sentence, “but you’re beautiful!” he all but screamed.

Mycroft blinked, his face a picture of utter confusion.

‘He really doesn’t know’, thought Greg.

“You have no idea, do you?” He said softly.

“I- I do not.”

“Sausage and chips, Sir,” Greg smiled threateningly at the waiter who looked a bit worried and walked away sharpish. Talk about killing the mood.

 

Greg looked down at his plate and then at Mycroft’s who hadn’t finished eating yet.

“It’ll get cold,” he said gently, gesturing at Mycroft’s food, and then, “where were we, gorgeous?”

The endearment was out of his mouth before he could stop it and Greg searched the other man’s face for a reaction. Instead of the disgust he was expecting, Mycroft’s eyes held surprise but also a hint of something else. Mycroft’s eyes darkened slightly. ‘He _likes_ it’ Greg thought, ‘bloody hell’.

“I believe,” said Mycroft shakily, “you were telling me that you find me...-“ He trailed off, his posture tensing and Greg wondered if he thought he had changed his mind,

“Beautiful, yes, how could I forget?” Mycroft’s posture relaxed slightly and Greg’s heart thumped, “eat your food,” he added.

“How can I with you saying these things to me?” Mycroft replied, smiling and eating a mouthful of fish.

Greg grinned, “I’m sure you’ll manage.” He paused, unsure as to whether this was his worst idea of all time, “I’ve got a day off tomorrow and I don’t suppose- don’t suppose you’d want to come round, would you?”

There was hardly a seconds hesitation this time,

“Yes.”

Greg grinned so widely he thought his face might split in two.

“It’s a date,” He said, and then suddenly realising that Mycroft might not want that, added, “only if you want it to be o’course.”

“I do. Want it to be that,” Mycroft replied, his cheeks colouring for the third time that day. Greg was reaching a record.

“Can I have your phone number, text you the address and everything?”

“Of course, Greg.”

The whole thing felt very surreal, and as Mycroft wrote his number down on a scrap of paper Greg felt as though he could probably fly given half the chance.

“Thanks Myc.”

Mycroft looked up at that, “Myc?”

Greg felt as though he had overstepped the line, “oh sorry, just kinda came out y’know, if you don’t like it I don’t have to-“.

“No, I do like it, Greg,” Mycroft said quickly, and Greg grinned, “oh, well, good,” he felt a little lost for words.

Not only had Mycroft given him his number, he was going to come round to his place. Greg would have already died a happy man had a plane flown into him, but now this too, now he had a nickname, or several, for this beautiful man. Greg felt as though the plane really had flown into him and he was in heaven already.

“I’ll cook, yeah? Tomorrow?”

“That’s not necessary, Greg, I assure you.”

“Oh come on, it is - it’s a date! What do you like eating?” Greg glanced at the other man’s plate - he had eaten all the fish but clearly wasn’t a fan of the vinegar and salt-covered chips.

“I’m sure anything that you make would be delicious, Greg,” said Mycroft, rather dodging the question.

Greg snorted, “nah, ‘fraid I’m not the best cook, don’t have time usually but after the fish and chips you might want some vegetables? Stir-fry maybe?”

Mycroft smiled, “that sounds perfect.”

 

His phone rang.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft fished his phone out from his suit pocket, “Anthea, hello.”

“No problem,” Greg said quietly, before checking his watch and starting in surprise. It was one in the morning. He hadn’t been out this late since, well, the divorce. Sally often told him that he was becoming an old man and he was inclined to believe her.

“...yes, tell him I will call him in five minutes and cancel tomorrow evenings meeting please, Anthea,” Mycroft creased his brow and looked at him apologetically, “one second Anthea, excuse me.” He put his phone down, “I’m afraid this is going to be a long phone call, Greg.”

“Nah, it’s fine, really, I know what it feels like to have an all-consuming job. It’s getting late anyway, so I’ll head home,” he said, his brown eyes smiling kindly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow, Greg.”

Greg grinned, his name rolled over Mycroft’s tongue like it was almost something familiar now.

He got up and paid the bill, checking that the other man wasn’t watching, and left the pub, beginning the short walk back to his flat.

He’d better get the ingredients for the stir-fry.


	3. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT’S SMUT O’CLOCK EVERYBODY

Greg woke up late (it was his day off after all), and went out for a run. It felt like a bit of a treat because he was only really able to exercise when he wasn’t working, which was hardly ever. He felt tense, nervous for his and Mycroft’s date tonight and his run allowed all the nerves to leave his body as he focused only on his surroundings and the steady pound of his trainers on the pavement.

 

When he returned to his flat it seemed as though the weather had taken a turn for the worse.

Angry, grey clouds smothered the sun as Greg began washing vegetables, humming a tune. He hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t get soaked on his way to his flat, but he supposed that he would have someone to drive him. It wouldn’t do for the personification of the British Government to get wet now, would it? As Greg thought that, an image of the younger man with his perfect hair dishevelled, beads of water dripping down his neck surfaced unbidden in his mind.

He wondered what suit Mycroft would be wearing and felt his cock twitch.  _For Christ’s sake_ . Greg ran a tanned hand over his face - it had been a long time since he’d thought about anyone in this way before and even longer since he’d had sex, particularly with a man. Greg vaguely wondered how he was going to keep it together during what was supposed to be a civil evening that bore no resemblance to the picture of an undone Mycroft that Greg had in his mind. 

He supposed he’d better shower. It might take the edge off his arousal. Greg groaned, he felt like a teenager again.

 

He debated setting the shower temperature to freezing in order to quash his erection, but eventually, deciding that it would do him no good to deny himself, particularly because having Mycroft in the same room as him turned him on. Greg sometimes thought about merely being in the same country as the other man and even that thought made him smile. Frankly, Greg thought there was something wrong with him to be affected quite as much as he was by the other man.

He set the temperature and curled his fingers around his erection, imagining them to be Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers. His cock throbbed painfully, jumping in his grasp. Greg leant against the shower wall, imagining supporting himself against Mycroft’s pale body as the younger man reached forward to touch Greg’s cock. He stroked his cock hard, fingers flying and Greg moaned wantonly with the sensation, gasping as he felt the heat inside him building and building until the pleasure was almost unbearable and he came in long spurts, his head falling back against the wall.

 

It took Greg a few minutes to get his breathing under control again. 

‘Haven’t come that hard in a while’, he thought, ‘an’ thinking of Mycroft Holmes too’. Greg desperately hoped that his orgasm wouldn’t be written across his face for Mycroft to see. ‘He’d probably notice anyway’, he thought. Damn it Greg, why are you going to  _eat dinner_ with  someone who can see your attraction written on your fucking face?

 

_Dinner_ . Greg sighed, grabbing a towel and rubbing himself dry. He’d better get on with this stir-fry if he wanted them both to have something to eat. ‘You could always eat hi-‘ began his brain hopefully. Greg stopped it quickly before he had to have another shower.

He chucked on a brown jumper and a pair of jeans and headed back to the kitchen.

 

 

It was pouring it down outside, in fact Greg had never seen weather like it, and that was saying something. It seemed possible that there was a thunderstorm on the way, and according to the forecast there most definitely was. Greg had almost finished the stir-fry and the noodles were almost perfect when his phone vibrated with a text.

 

‘ _Is now a convenient time? I believe I am ten minutes away from your flat, MH’_

_‘Well of course you know my address, Mr. British Government. And yes, now is perfectx’_

_‘I am on my way, MH.’_

 

A whirlwind of sudden nerves kicked up in Greg’s stomach, encouraged by the howling wind outside that appeared to be shaking the very foundations of his rather cheap flat. Oh dear. Part of Greg wished that the flat would collapse so that he’d have an excuse not to see Mycroft.

‘Don’t be stupid’, his brain said, finally talking some sense, ‘you’ve wanted this for years, don’t deny yourself now’.

Greg knew that for once his brain was speaking the truth. It wasn’t like they had to do anything tonight either, hell maybe Mycroft didn’t even like him that much. That thought sent a spike of panic through his chest.

Get a hold of yourself, Greg!

 

 

There was a rather timid knock at the door.

Greg took a deep breath, tugged at his jumper self-consciously, and crossed the room to the door.

Mycroft was stood there, holding a soaked and broken umbrella. The man was absolutely drenched, and Greg could see water droplets dripping down his face.

“I thought you would have had a car,” Greg said, incredulously, beckoning Mycroft into the flat,

“I did,” he replied, “but half the road was rather badly flooded so I decided to walk,” he looked rather disappointedly at his useless umbrella, “the wind has rather beaten my umbrella.”

“Ah, that’s rubbish,” said Greg, who noticed that Mycroft was still standing on the threshold uncertainly, “come in, you can take a warm shower if you like.”

“I… can’t, Lestr- Greg. I will make your flat all wet, even once I’ve taken my shoes off,” Mycroft looked disappointed with himself and Greg’s heart squeezed, “nah, I don’t mind a bit of water, Myc, but please come in and get warm or you’ll catch a cold.”

Mycroft’s posture relaxed a little at the nickname and he squared his shoulders slightly and walked into the flat, toeing his soaking shoes off neatly by the door.

Mycroft Holmes in socks. Greg’s heart nearly failed him. It felt domestic. It felt  natural .

Greg ran a shaking hand through his silver hair, ‘shut it’, he thought angrily.

“Bathrooms through there, lemme jus’ get you a towel,” Greg said, fetching his fluffiest towel - only the best for Mycroft Holmes. Greg turned up the heating and gave the towel to the younger man, his heart fluttering as their hands brushed, “take as long as you need.”

At these words, Mycroft’s face twisted slightly and Greg saw a flash of uncertainty skitter across his face, “really,” Greg added, his eyes sincere, and the uncertainty vanished from his face, replaced by an unspeakable gratitude, “thank you,” Mycroft said quietly, padding softly to the bathroom.

Greg felt as though he had won a trophy. He raised an eyebrow at himself and began plating up the stir-fry.

 

Little more than ten minutes later, Mycroft poked his head out of the bathroom.

“Greg?” He sounded so unsure of himself that it made Greg’s heart hurt,

“You alright, Myc?”

“Yes, I - my suit… it’s still wet.”

Greg could have kicked himself, “Oh god ‘m so sorry, let me put it out to dry - I can put it on a radiator… I know it might not be what your suits are used to though and I don’t wanna ruin it…”, Greg trailed off, suddenly aware of the expense of Mycroft’s suits.

“No, Greg, that’s… that will do perfectly,” the gratitude shone through Mycroft’s voice like a lighthouse through fog.

“You sure?”

“Completely”, Mycroft replied, with such conviction that Greg didn’t dare ask him again.

“Lemme find you something to wear in the meantime,” Greg said, “you’re a lot taller and slimmer than me so it’ll be a bad fit, but…”, Greg’s train of thought began to spin a pretty image of the other man in one of Greg’s own jumpers, a little short, showing the man’s no doubt beautiful forearms. Mycroft Holmes not in a suit. Mycroft wearing a jumper. Mycroft wearing  his jumper. Greg almost moaned aloud.

Flinging his wardrobe open he scanned over his clothing, searching for something that Mycroft would be comfortable wearing. After a few minutes, he settled on a navy jumper - the softest one he owned -, a pair of relaxed jeans that were slightly too long for him and might fit the other man better, and a pair of warm, grey socks.

 

Greg knocked softly on the bathroom door, “Mycroft? I’ve got you some clothes.”

The door opened a tiny crack and a pale hand took the clothes from Greg, “thank you, Greg, it’s really so kind of you.” 

“Nah, honestly Myc it’s no trouble,” Greg replied easily, “foods ready when you are.”

 

A few minutes later Mycroft padded softly over to the table. Greg looked up and felt his jaw go slack.

The younger man looked positively breathtaking.

The jumper did indeed expose Mycroft’s elegant forearms and the navy brought out his grey eyes so that when Greg looked at him his eyes appeared to search his very soul.

The jeans fit the other man rather well but exposed the grey socks.

Greg’s head pounded painfully as he handed Mycroft a plate.

“I know it’s not much,” he said, terrifyingly aware of the simplicity of the meal now that he’d given it to the other man, and he resisted the urge to knock the plate out of his hands and save himself the embarrassment.

Mycroft was shaking his head, “Greg, it looks delicious.”

Greg looked at him in surprise, realising that he’d half-expected him to react like Sherlock surely would have - with disdain. Mycroft clearly had more tact and Greg was thankful for that.

They sat down at the table.

“Good day then?” Greg asked, and then upon seeing a conflict of emotions chase each other across the younger man’s face, he added, “or is it official secret stuff?”

“I regret to say I cannot tell you, Greg,” and Greg noted that Mycroft really did sound regretful,

“Nah it’s alright,” he said, “ _minor_ role in the British Government my ass.”

A small smile twitched on Mycroft’s lips and Greg grinned at him, taking another mouthful of the stir-fry.

“This is lovely,” Mycroft said. Normally Greg would have laughed the compliment off bashfully, but Mycroft sounded so earnest that Greg felt he had no choice but to accept and believe him, “thank you.”

“And your day?”

Something about his tone made Greg think that Mycroft didn’t often return questions. Not because he was impolite and not because he didn’t care but merely because he was too timid to do so.

Mycroft was  _ shy .  So shy _ .

Greg supposed that, with his life revolving around his job, Mycroft didn’t have time for social interactions or, well, friends. The thought made him incredibly sad.

“Yeah it was good, thanks. Didn’t do much, went for a run.”

“Do you run often?” Mycroft inquired,

“Not as much as I want to, work being how it is, y’know.”

The run reminded Greg of his shower earlier that day. The shower that Mycroft had just used. He desperately hoped that the water had washed all traces of his orgasm off the shower.

Greg felt the heat creeping up his neck and coughed, embarrassed.

“Didn’t make dessert ‘m afraid, but I bought an apple pie.”

“That sounds perfect,” Mycroft said quietly, putting his knife and fork neatly together on his plate.

“D’you want to go sit on the sofa an’ I’ll bring it over?”

The younger man nodded and stood up, still rather nervous, Greg noted - that needed to change.

 

There was a sudden crackle of thunder from outside and Greg heard a quiet whimper from the sofa.

“Myc? You alright?” Greg brought the pie over to the sofa,

“Y-yes,” he heard the other man stutter slightly, but he still took a plate, although Greg noticed his hands were trembling.

“Myc, gorgeous, what’s wrong?” Greg took the plate from Mycroft and set it down on the small table, taking his shaking hands in his own.

Greg saw a flash of calm return to the younger man’s eyes at the endearment but his hands hadn’t stopped shaking, “Myc?” he prompted gently.

There was another rumble of thunder and a white streak of lightning shot across the ominous sky as the rain poured down. Mycroft quivered, his eyes as wide as plates, “th-the storm,” he whispered hoarsely, his pale skin flushed pink with embarrassment.

“Oh darlin’,” Greg murmured, placing a large, tanned hand on Mycroft’s forehead to steady him and gently running his other hand through his hair.

Greg smiled, seeing the roots of the younger man’s hair. Despite having the appearance of a brunette, Mycroft’s roots were auburn. Greg wasn’t sure he’d seen a more dazzling colour in his life, “beautiful hair,” he whispered, more to himself than to Mycroft,

“No,” Mycroft replied, his tense features managing a small smile, “nothing like your hair.”

Greg laughed, running a hand through his own silver hair, “you like it?” He didn’t mean to adopt a teasing tone but Mycroft’s cheeks heated anyway, “yes. It’s truly stunning,” the man whispered, and Greg saw his hands twitching at his sides, although he wasn’t sure if it was the fear of the storm or perhaps... perhaps... .

“If you want to, well... touch?,” Greg suggested, stroking the man’s hands in his own.

“Please,” Mycroft murmured. It sounded more of a question than a statement, “yes, of course,” Greg said.

Slowly, Mycroft moved his trembling hands to Greg’s hair, placed them on his head and began to card his fingers through the silver hair. Greg closed his eyes, the tender action making his eyes burn with an unbidden emotion.

Mycroft hummed softly, the gentle, rhythmic movement appearing to calm him. Greg moved slightly on the sofa, tucking his feet underneath him and cradling Mycroft’s cheek with one of his large hands. The contrast between his tanned skin and the other man’s pale skin was evident, making his head spin.

Mycroft leaned into Greg’s touch as though he craved it, “your hands...” he whispered.

“D’you like ‘em?” asked Greg, winking, and he grinned as the other man’s face flushed, “tease,” Mycroft said, and then he took Greg’s hand and moved it in front of his mouth, looking up at Greg with grey pupils stormy with lust. Greg’s breath caught, suddenly aware of what the younger man wanted to do.

And so, still looking into Greg’s eyes, Mycroft took his thumb into his mouth and sucked gently on it, swirling his tongue over and around it, nibbling softly at the skin. Greg groaned, his brown eyes, although still kind, were full of want. Normally, Greg wouldn’t have found the situation as arousing as he did, but knowing that it was  _Mycroft_ , seeing that it was  _Mycroft_ , turned him on so much.

Mycroft released his thumb with an obscene ‘ _pop_ ’ which made him blush and served purely to turn Greg on even more.

“Can I kiss you, Myc?”

Mycroft laughed shakily, “normally I would have kissed someone before putting their thumb in my mouth.”

Greg grinned, “so is that a yes?”

“Indefinitely.”

Greg hummed his approval. How was it that fancy words could turn him on so much? Maybe it was just Mycroft.

He moved his now wet thumb to stroke the younger man’s cheek again and then manoeuvred himself so that he was nearly sitting on top of him, “better access to your beautiful mouth, gorgeous,” he said in reply to Mycroft’s questioning look,

“Why don’t you just go all the way?” Greg raised one eyebrow and grinned, “well that’s not such a bad idea now you mention it.” He shifted himself until he was sat completely in the other man’s lap, positioned so that their erections were rubbing together. Mycroft was so hard that Greg moaned, surprised. If he was this aroused and they hadn’t even kissed yet... It gave Greg the pleasant feeling of being wanted. Mycroft’s cheeks were stained pink, “Greg, I-“.

“Hey, don’t you dare apologise for  _this_ ,” said Greg, reaching down and stroking Mycroft’s erection through his jeans, earning him a strangled moan, “anyway,” Greg continued, struggling to remain in control of his own arousal, “I wanna kiss you, so c’mere gorgeous.”

Greg leaned forward, locking eyes with Mycroft, whose grip tightened in his hair. Greg gently pressed their lips together. With his free hand, Mycroft grabbed hold of Greg’s jumper and pulled him in closer, opening his lips and allowing Greg to slip his tongue in, exploring. Mycroft shifted slightly and Greg moaned into his mouth as their erections rubbed together. 

“You gorgeous man,” Greg whispered against his lips, and hearing a murmur of protest from Mycroft, pulled back. “I want to hold you and worship you until you can see just how beautiful you are.”

“Greg-,” Mycroft’s voice was little more than a whisper of air, a choked off exclamation of surprise. And then he was pulling him close again, kissing him until Greg could hardly breathe, with such passion that Greg could have been forgiven for thinking that he was on fire.

“Greg,” he said again, a quiet desperation in his voice,

“Mmm?” Greg hummed, stroking Mycroft’s erection with more purpose now, “let’s get these off, shall we?”

“ _Please_ .”

Greg’s fingers shook as he undid the other man’s fly, and he faintly heard the storm, still ferocious, around them. Mycroft however appeared not to notice it anymore and that made Greg so happy he was nearly delirious as he pulled his jeans and boxers off the younger man.

Mycroft’s cock was incredibly hard and Greg’s mouth watered just to see it, “jumper too?” He asked, wanting to see the other man laid utterly bare in front of him.

Mycroft nodded, seemingly unable to trust himself to speak, and Greg gently undressed him until he lay in front of him, completely naked. 

“Oh,” Greg breathed, “oh, darlin’.”

Mycroft bit his lip, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “You’re gorgeous, Myc.”

Mycroft moistened his lips, seeming unable to reply, and Greg lowered himself down his body, being sure to rub himself against Mycroft’s weeping erection as he kissed his pale skin, starting with his neck. He kissed the skin gently and then harder, sucking on it and then smoothing the skin with more kisses. By the time Greg began to mouth a trail of wet kisses down his stomach Mycroft was a writhing, groaning mess. The sight took Greg’s breath away. “Fuck,” he whispered, staring at the man below him. Mycroft whimpered in response and Greg leaned down and pressed a kiss to the smattering of hair above his groin. Then, slowly, he stroked Mycroft’s entire length and put it in his mouth, taking him as far down as possible. Mycroft’s grip in his hair tightened to the extent of being almost painful but not quite, and Greg hummed, pleased, sending vibrations through the other man’s body and making him gasp, trying desperately not to buck his hips. Greg swirled his tongue over the head of his cock and then took his length all the way into his mouth again, placing his right hand on the small amount of cock that his mouth hadn’t covered and stroking it in time with his head movements. Greg moved his left hand to fondle Mycroft’s balls and the other man gasped above him, moaning so loudly Greg wondered if his neighbours would hear. The thought aroused him even more. He was giving a blow job to Mycroft Holmes. Greg moaned around his cock, but the next groan from the younger man sounded muffled and Greg craned his neck upwards to see that Mycroft had his hand over his mouth. Although still stroking his balls, Greg pulled away from Mycroft’s cock, “Myc, you don’t need to be scared of making a noise. I want to hear you.”

Eyes screwed up in pleasure still from the attention being given to his balls, Mycroft said, “b-but I was so -nergh- loud,” he sounded a little puzzled and Greg’s heart squeezed, “but I wanna hear you, Myc. It tells me I’m doing something right, and it turns me on - I mean, that noise you just made was sexy as hell,” and he took Mycroft’s cock back into his mouth again to prove the point.

Mycroft moaned again, louder, and Greg grinned around his cock, bobbing his head and sucking faster to reward him.

“Oh, Greg,” Mycroft choked out as Greg moved faster and faster, “Greg, I- OH!” he exclaimed as Greg moaned wantonly around his cock and then pulled away, putting his mouth around one of Mycroft’s balls instead, but keeping his hand on his cock, moving it faster and faster and, when satisfied with his work on the first of his balls, Greg moved to the other, causing Mycroft’s hand to grip his hair so tightly Greg groaned with the pleasure.

“Greg, I’m close, I’m-,” Mycroft broke off with a choked gasp as Greg returned his mouth to his long cock, taking him in deeply once again.

“Greg, I’ll come-,” he groaned, tugging on his hair with a note of warning.

‘ _He thinks I won’t want him to come down my throat_ _’,_ Greg realised. Clearly, Mycroft didn’t know how wrong he was.

“ _Greg_ -,” Mycroft said again, with a slight edge of panic in his voice,

“Hmmm?,” Greg hummed, redoubling his efforts around his cock and rubbing his salvia all over Mycroft’s already wet balls. Mycroft moaned so loudly that Greg knew the neighbours definitely would hear him, and he moaned so lustfully around his cock that he was almost surprised at himself.

“I’m-! - ah! - Greg! - I’m...!”

Greg bobbed his head to the speed of his hand that was flying over the small amount of Mycroft’s cock that Greg couldn’t take,

“OH, GREG!” Mycroft shouted, coming in long, hot spurts down his throat.

Greg did his best to swallow it all although a small amount of come was smeared over his shining lips when he pulled off.

Mycroft stared at him through hazy, pleasured, grey eyes.

“Was that alright, gorgeous?” Greg asked, because despite Mycroft’s evident orgasm, Greg was still out of practice and was certain he could do it better.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, “what do you think?” He said sarcastically and Greg spluttered with laughter. 

“Alright, you sexy bastard, that’s enough of that sarcasm,” said Greg.

Mycroft grinned at him and Greg thought his heart might explode. He had never seen the other man show his happiness so openly.  Perhaps because he never has much to be happy about.  Greg pushed that thought away. The important thing was that Mycroft was grinning at him, satisfied, and that was because of him.

“Greg,” he murmured, and from his lips Greg thought his name sounded like a prayer, “I want to touch you.”

Greg sucked in a breath at Mycroft’s sincerity, his previously ignored erection becoming increasingly obvious,  “let me put that pie in the fridge first, beautiful - you’re gonna need to it after all the things I’m gonna do to you.”


	4. Showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lil’ bit more smutttt

“Let me put that pie in the fridge first, beautiful - you’re gonna need to it after all the things I’m gonna do to you.”

Mycroft snorted with surprise, “I have to confess I’d forgotten all about it.”

Greg grinned, “I’m glad.”

A loud crash of thunder could be heard from outside but he chose that moment to lean forward and kiss the other man, losing himself in the kiss, hoping that Mycroft hadn’t heard the storm due to the distraction of his lips of his.

Greg pulled away when he knew that the thunder had passed and took the pie to the fridge. Mycroft made as if to get up but Greg held out a hand to stop him, “you stay right there, gorgeous,” he said, winking, and then he grinned at the shiver that shook Mycroft’s entire body. The younger man was so sensitive to everything and Greg wanted to try it all on him, everything in the book that he was happy with, to work him into a mewling mess.

He returned to his position on Mycroft’s lap a few moments later, satisfied that the pie would be ready whenever they wanted it. Mycroft sighed, content to feel Greg’s weight on top of him. Perhaps it felt comforting, made him feel stable, Greg wondered, and with that thought would have happily sat there until the end of time if it wasn’t for Mycroft’s long, elegant fingers that had begun to tug gently at his jumper.

Greg grinned, “impatient,” he whispered, 

“Mmm,” the other man hummed, satisfied, as Greg lifted his jumper above his head and took it off, and then Greg watched his grey eyes, piercing and fascinated, drink in his body, every hollow and every curve of it.

“ Greg ...,” said Mycroft, and he didn’t need to say anything else, because Greg understood the depth of his emotion simply by the tone of his voice. He felt wanted. He felt needed.

But through this lustful haze he felt the need to check, “Myc, you don’t think this is too fast do you?”

A small crease appeared on Mycroft’s forehead, “I...,” he trailed off, his frown increasing as he struggled to find the words, “I-I’ve always liked you, Greg, always wanted to-to make love to you, you’ve always been so kind to me and to Sherlock, even when you didn’t have to be and I-,” he looked up at Greg’s tanned chest and then at his hands, “and you looks don’t help.”

Greg smiled softly, “but I’m happy to take this slow, Myc, I don’t know how you see this but I’d like it to be something more than sex, if- if you’re up for that.”

“Yes,” was the simple response, and Greg grinned, his brown eyes sparkling.

“Alright then,” he said, stroking Mycroft’s cheek, “your move, darlin’.”

Mycroft’s hands shook as he touched Greg’s chest wonderingly, his lips parted slightly and to Greg his touch felt like fire, cradling him in its warmth.

The younger man leant forward, peppering kisses to his chest and nuzzling into his neck, kissing the hollow there.

Greg groaned, winding his hands through Mycroft’s auburn hair, and he felt his cock throb uncomfortably in his jeans.

“Off,” Mycroft growled, his hands clutching Greg’s jeans as he struggled to unzip his fly, hands trembling.

“I can do it, beautiful,” said Greg, smiling softly, his eyes creasing,

“N-no, Greg, I-,” Mycroft bit his lip, determination clear in his eyes, but Greg knew his hands were still shaking too badly to take his trousers off. “Let me help you then,” Greg whispered, holding Mycroft’s hands in his. Mycroft nodded wordlessly and Greg’s steady, large hands undid his button and he guided Mycroft’s fingers to his zipper. Mycroft tugged down on the zip, the sound filling the room, mingling with the ongoing thunderstorm outside, which reminded Greg to do something he should have done earlier, “lemme jus’ close the curtains and then we could move this to the bedroom if you want?”

“Absolutely,” Mycroft replied, although he murmured a protest when Greg got up. “Don’t worry darlin’, I’m comin’ back. Why don’t you go and sit on the bed whilst I shut these?”

Mycroft nodded, walking to Greg’s bedroom a little nervously and completely naked. The sight made Greg’s hard cock twitch and his heart throb simultaneously.

Mycroft Holmes walking into his bedroom.  _Christ_ .

 

Greg shimmied out of his jeans, leaving them on the sofa for now, and closed the curtains on the howling gale outside. The rain pounded strongly against the windows. The scene was desolate. Greg focused on the warmth and light of his flat, and then on the door to his bedroom that Mycroft had left ajar, golden light spilling from within.

Greg walked towards the room, his heart rate spiking with anticipation.

 

Opening the door, he saw that Mycroft had obviously realised that Greg slept on the left because he was sat on the right side of the bed, naked on top of the covers.

He looked up as he entered and Greg caught a glimmer of vulnerability swimming in his grey eyes,

“Greg, I should tell you that I haven’t done anything sexual for quite some time,” Mycroft said, his voice unsure.

“Me neither, Myc,” Greg tried to reassure him, “and whatever you do’ll feel good, m’ sure.”

Mycroft still looked uncertain so Greg added, “an’ I’m really loud in the bedroom so you’ll know what you’re doing right,”

“I would have thought that I was rather loud earlier,” said Mycroft, 

“Oh nothing like I can be, gorgeous,” Greg said, grinning at him, “but thank you for making some noise for me, Myc, it was hot as fuck.”

Mycroft’s bitten lips twitched into a smile and Greg noticed that his eyes had darkened, “like it when I swear, do you?” he teased,

“I regret to admit it,” said Mycroft, “but your uncivilised profanities are rather arousing.”

“‘ Uncivilised ’,” muttered Greg, “cheeky bastard.”

Mycroft winked at him and his heart swooped.

The younger man’s fingers had begun to fiddle persistently with the top of Greg’s boxers and, getting the message, Greg pulled them off so that he was naked in front of the other man.

Mycroft’s lips parted slightly and a small groan travelled through them,

“Not as young as I once was, ‘m afraid, Myc,” Greg said, slightly self-consciously,

“Greg,” said Mycroft, his tone admonishing, “you’re beautiful.”

Greg swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. He shrugged non-comitally but Mycroft’s eyes roamed all over his body, a quiet hunger in his eyes, and a part of Greg couldn’t help but believe him.

He padded over to the bed and sat down, capturing Mycroft’s mouth in a kiss. As they kissed, the younger man moved his long fingers to Greg’s cock, making a fist and sliding his hand up and down slowly. Greg groaned into his mouth, his cock throbbing. He knew he wouldn’t last long.

Mycroft’s hand tightened over his cock and Greg squeezed his eyes shut, muttering a long, drawn out “fuckkk...”,

“Mmmm,” Mycroft hummed, the speed of his hand increasing and Greg’s eyes reopened, looking down and watching Mycroft’s hand on his cock. The sight made him moan loudly, his cock jumping in the other man’s hand. Greg’s hand flew to Mycroft’s hair who groaned quietly, speeding up his movements and angling his hand perfectly so that Greg was caught in his merciless grip, wave upon wave of pleasure washing over him. 

“Oh, Oh Myc,” he moaned, his cock already beginning to leak in Mycroft’s elegant hands, “I’m not gonna last long.”

“Mmmm,” said Mycroft in reply, stroking him faster and flicking out his tongue, swirling it around Greg’s nipple.

“Oh that’s good, ah!” Greg exclaimed as Mycroft tightened his hand even more around his cock, speeding up his hand so that Greg could barely think straight, could only watch as if from outside his body, Mycroft’s hand flying over his cock,

“Oh, darlin’, fuck!”, the pleasure continued, the heat building and building inside of him until it was almost too much to bear,

“Come for me, Greg.” It was Mycroft’s voice that tipped him over the edge, deep and gravelly and so unbelievably  sexy , but Greg could hear the tenderness there that signifies that he was  loved .

“Oh Myc, fuck, Myc, OH _MYC_!”, Greg came, his release spilling all over Mycroft’s hand and chest.

The younger man stroked him through his orgasm until he was too sensitive to take it.

 

When Greg became able to breathe properly again, he looked up at the other man, grinning,

“that was amazing, gorgeous,”

“You weren’t making that very well known to me,” Mycroft replied with his sly sarcasm and Greg laughed, “cheeky.”

The younger man’s lips twitched into a smile. Greg shifted on his lap, “I’m all sticky,” Mycroft warned him, but Greg shrugged - he didn’t care.

But, lying across the other man, he did notice that he was hard again.

“So,” said Greg, glancing very obviously at Mycroft’s erect cock, “how would you like me to take care of that?”

Mycroft blushed crimson, “I- I don’t expect you to, Greg, I am happy to take a shower, in fact I think I ought to,” he gestured down to his sticky stomach and hand, covered in Greg’s come.

Greg pouted, “I like you like this though.”

The other man looked sceptical, “really? All disgustingly sticky?”

“Mmmm,” Greg replied, kissing him, “all disgustingly sticky.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Laughing at his expression, Greg said, “why don’t we take a shower then if it bothers you so much?”

“Finally, you see sense.”

Greg laughed, his brown eyes creasing, “come with me then, you gorgeous man.” Taking him by the hand, Greg led Mycroft to the shower and turned it on.

When he judged it was warm enough Greg gestured to him to join him, and Mycroft walked into the shower, shivering slightly.

“Come warm up, darlin’.”

The minute that the water touched his body Mycroft relaxed in such a way that Greg had never seen him relax before. Greg picked up the shower gel, “turn around for me, gorgeous?”

He nodded and exposed his back to the other man who began to massage the gel into his back, with feather light touches.

“‘S that good?”

“Yes, very,” whispered Mycroft in reply,

“Good”, he murmured, pressing his fingers in a little harder, massaging away the tension that he held there.

“Let’s get this sticky feeling off you then, darlin’. Turn around for me?”

He turned around and Greg felt his hardness against his leg. Mycroft blushed scarlet, the colour creeping up his neck like a slow burning flame, “Greg, I-,” Mycroft’s voice cracked with embarrassment,

“Hey Myc,” Greg said, lathering more of the shower gel in his warm hands and spreading it over the other man’s body, “there’s no need to be embarrassed.” He continued to wash the other man with gentle and purposeful movements, his hands swooping lower and lower to reach the stickiness of Greg’s earlier release,

“But... you’re not...,” Mycroft trailed off, glancing meaningfully at Greg’s cock that twitched slightly at his look but otherwise was not erect.

“Yet,” Greg whispered into his ear with a soft smile, “plus I’m an older man than you, gorgeous.”

Mycroft looked at him reproachfully, “not by much.”

“True,” Greg replied, “and that’s why I said ‘yet’”.

Greg washed the other man free of the sticky feeling that he felt and then looked at him, “why don’t we go to bed?”

Mycroft’s blush flared up again, “we don’t have to have sex, we’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with, okay?” Greg reassured him,

“Okay,” said Mycroft.

Greg took his hand and they walked out of the shower together and, grabbing them both towels, Greg directed them to the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos are appreciated and comments are very appreciated! Xox


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